


Feet on the Floor

by Blissymbolics



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon Compliant, Ed is gay and doesn't know how to sit in a chair, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-19 23:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18980464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blissymbolics/pseuds/Blissymbolics
Summary: Over the last three years, Roy has come to realize that Edward has some magnetic aversion to sitting with decent posture. As if putting both feet flat on the floor violates his personal law of gravity.





	Feet on the Floor

**Author's Note:**

> So I drew this up yesterday and it inspired me to write a little thing about our favorite disaster gay son.

**1914**

“Put your feet on the floor.”

“Hm?” Ed hums, pulled out of his bored daze.

“Feet. Floor. Ninety degree angle. Actually, never mind, your legs are too short for that. Aim for one hundred and ten if you can.”

Roy relishes in the bitter scrunch of Ed’s nose.

Edward is currently lying across the relatively narrow armchair positioned in front of Roy’s desk. His back is slouched against the left armrest while his feet are dangling over the right. His arms are crossed over his chest and his feet are twitching with restless jitters.

Over the last three years, Roy has come to realize that Edwardhas some magnetic aversion to sitting with decent posture. As if putting both feet flat on the floor violates his personal law of gravity. Normally Roy wouldn't say anything, but Ed did just get out of the hospital after narrowly avoiding a broken rib. Contorting his body around various pieces of furniture can’t be beneficial for the healing process.

“Why, what’s the point?” he grumbles. “If anything you should be thankful I’m keeping my muddy boots off your carpet.”

“Fine,” Roy sighs. “Have it your way. But you’ll be sorry when you get a herniated disc at twenty.”

“Pst, my automail’s already fucked my spine up beyond recovery. At this point I’m just waiting for the scoliosis to kick in.”

“You’re certainly not doing yourself any favors on that front.”

“They’re my bones and I’ll do what I want with ‘em. Besides, by twenty my whole body’ll probably be made of automail anyway.”

Roy turns his eyes back to the report in front of him, deciding to let the matter go, trying not to betray the flicker of sadness invoked by that last remark.

 

**1915**

“So if we prioritize our reconnaissance responsibilities and allocate three foot soldiers to –”

“Sorry, Lieutenant, just a moment,” Roy interrupts, his focus subsumed by the blond teenager sitting across from him at the table.

Actually, what he’s doing can’t exactly be called “sitting.” Currently both of his feet are planted on the seat and his small body is scrunched up and folded like a pretzel.

Roy rarely bothers him about his posture anymore; not seriously at least. But just this morning he received a stern lecture from General Hendel regarding Edward’s abysmal etiquette, and Hendel not-so-subtly implied that if Ed doesn’t get his act together, Roy will see the damage on his performance review.

At this point it’s probably too late to drill anything too demanding into his ironclad skull. He’s been spoiled by years of lackluster reprimands. But correctly sitting in a chair? That isn’t too much to ask, right?

“Fullmetal,” Roy says sternly.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing with your legs?”

“Fuck, not this again,” he groans. “I’m sitting. In a chair. And a fucking uncomfortable one at that.”

“I’m sure it is. Considering that you’ve chosen to ignore the user guidelines.”

Hawkeye noticeably clenches her jaw. “Colonel, could we please–”

“No. Fullmetal, I want to see both your feet on the floor. This isn’t basic training; I’m not making you run drills or salute at a perfect angle. I just want you to take part in the bare bones of social etiquette like the rest of us. Is that too much to ask?”

“Fine,” Ed grunts after a few seconds of pouting.

Then he promptly stands up, turns his chair backwards, and slumps down with his legs spread across either side with his arms and chin propped on the backrest.

Roy feels a vein pulse in his forehead.

“Fullme–”

“Both my feet are on the floor. Now, can you please let the Lieutenant carry on? You’ve been very rude.”

 _Let it go,_  Roy recites to himself. _Let it go._

 

**1916**

There are only four people in the train car apart from Roy himself: a mother and her teenage daughter, an old man with a silver beard, and a young man with long blond hair tied back in a ponytail.

He’s currently splayed across one of the wooden benches, a book an inch from his nose, one leg dangling off the bench and the other propped up on the wood. The back of his head is leaning against the window and his spine is curved like an impossible algebra equation.

“Don’t you think it’s rude to be taking up two seats like that?”

Ed moves the book from his face, annoyance suddenly changing into smug recognition.

“What kind of asshole would sit next to a stranger in a nearly empty train car?” he asks coyly.

“The kind of asshole who wouldn’t mind pestering his former subordinate for the next couple hours ’til we get to Central.

“Fine,” he groans, pushing himself up and shifting closer to the window. “Make yourself comfortable; since you never want me to be,” he says right before rotating his torso to evoke a loud crack.

“So what’s bringing you to Central?” Roy asks as he takes a seat next to him.

“Just a social visit. Stopping by all the old haunts.”

“And was I by chance on your itinerary?”

“Eh, I was gonna play it by ear,” he replies with a shrug. “I’ll only be there for three days, and didn’t want you postponing any war meetings for my sake.”

Roy almost says something along the lines of " _I wouldn’t postpone a sewer inspection for your sake,"_ but he restrains himself, as it feels too mean to qualify as playful banter.

“Well, fortunately, my schedule for the next three days is almost completely free,” he says instead.

“Great, you can follow me around and critique my posture. Balance some books on my head and tie me in a corset.”

“Speaking of corsets, I see your fashion sense has improved substantially,” he says without sarcasm.

Edward is currently clad in a wrinkled, yet attractive button down shirt and a pair of black slacks with tastefully rugged brown leather boots. He looks nice. He looks, dare Roy say it, mature.

“Yeah, one less thing you can hound me about.” Ed flashes him a smile, then crosses his legs at an unnatural angle.

 

**1917**

“I’d recognize that posture anywhere.”

Ed turns in response, a cheeky grin on his face.

He’s sitting on the barstool with one foot tucked under his ass, the other bent under the seat. Even though his body has finished crossing into adulthood, his muscle memory is clearly unchanged from childhood.

“Don’t be jealous just because you’re old and can’t reach your knees anymore.”

“Nice to see you too.”

Roy moves forward to take the seat next to him, electing to sit with a slight lean like the off-duty soldier that he is.

“So, what brings you to Central this time around?”

“Job hunting.”

“You don’t say?”

“Yeah, things in Creta didn’t really work out. So here I am, pounding the pavement,” he says right before knocking back the rest of the amber liquid in his glass.

“What’re you drinking?” Roy asks.

“Melted ice cubes, mainly. Central bars suck ass. Out in Risembool you can get twice this much for a quarter the price. This shit is criminal.”

“Well, the liquor taxes and laws are a bit stricter here.”

“And the people richer.”

“Yes, that too.” Roy nods.

“Tell you what,” Ed says after a beat of silence, “buy me a double whiskey, keep me entertained, and I’ll let my legs dangle for the rest of the night.”

Roy almost says something catastrophically stupid. Something akin to " _What else can you do with your legs?"_

Where the hell did that come from? Suddenly he feels a rush of heat spread across his chest, an electric spark nearly evoking a shudder.

Ed is looking at him expectantly, clearly tipsy and with a smirk that spells trouble.

“Deal.”

 

**1918**

“This has nothing to do with my posture,” Ed states matter-of-factly. “I had an automail arm for five years while going through puberty, and broke enough bones to earn the legal status of medical marvel. My posture is like the eleventh cause of this.”

“I know,” Roy replies, trying to restrain his involuntary smugness.

The chiropractor should be calling Ed into his office any minute now.

Roy had sensed something off about Ed for days. He was sleeping at weird angles and knocking back a concerning amount of painkillers. But the truth didn’t come out until several nights ago when Ed had to tap out of sex after less than a minute of being on his hands and knees. Of course Roy asked in alarm if he had hurt him, to which Ed just let out a pained groan and said that his lower back hurt so bad it felt like he was a thrust away from paralysis.

The evening wasn’t a complete wash though, as Roy got to massage him while he ground himself off against the mattress and then let Roy jerk off on his back.

“Fuck, why are these chairs so uncomfortable? Fucking cater to your demographic,” Ed complains, mildly adjusting his position, but still sitting ramrod straight with both feet firmly on the floor.

“If you lean forward a bit it might help,” Roy offers.

“Are you, Roy Mustang, actually suggesting that I slouch?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting. It’ll take some of the pressure off your lower back.”

Ed does as he’s told, and lets out a small sigh in relief.

“The human spine is fucked,” he moans. “It’s an evolutionary embarrassment.”

“Well, yours has been pretty damn sturdy. I’m sure it’ll carry you through the next six decades just fine.”

Ed groans dramatically in response.

"All joking aside," Roy says while reaching out to rub his shoulder, "I'm going to miss your geometrically-absurd sitting arrangements. They're quite endearing. Or dare I say it, cute."

"Fuck, why didn't you tell me that seven years ago?" Ed groans. "If you'd told me back then that I looked cute I would've started sitting like a fucking ballet dancer. You did this to me. It's your fault."

Roy laughs. "I'm sorry. But I'm glad I got to enjoy it in the interim."

 

**Author's Note:**

> [ twitter](https://twitter.com/blissymbolics1)
> 
> [ tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/blissymbolics)
> 
> [ curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/blissymbolics1)


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